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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24524830">A Little Push</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/spelledink/pseuds/spelledink'>spelledink</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Devil Wears Prada (2006)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Dancing, F/F, Love Confessions, Romance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:00:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,607</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24524830</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/spelledink/pseuds/spelledink</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Miranda is in love with Andy. Andy is in love with Miranda. Neither has a clue. A playful goddess helps them out.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>228</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. A Fateful Party</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Miranda and Andy arrive at a party, and meet a playful goddess. Whose meddling might cure their love woes.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><strong> <em>A Little Push</em> </strong> </p><p>
  <strong>A Devil Wears Prada fanfiction</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>This story is a nonprofit work of fanfiction.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>The Devil Wears Prada is the property of Lauren Weisberger and 20th Century Fox.</strong>
</p><p>Dita Swan stepped out of her silver Jaguar limousine at East 76th Street. Waving a farewell to her driver, Antheia. She approached the door of the Carlyle Hotel, smiling as a young porter held it open for her. She entered Bemelman’s bar, seating herself. A woman in a red jacket appeared, the bartender. “A French 75,” Dita said. The young brunette nodded, a pretty blush climbing her cheeks. She made the drink. Lemon, gin and simple syrup shaken with ice. She finished, pouring the mixture into a champagne glass. Topping it with Veuve Clicquot.</p><p>Dita accepted the cocktail, nodding her thanks. She took a sip, enjoying its flavor. The tartness of lemon, the sting of gin, and tingle of champagne. She gazed into the mirror opposite her, her lips curving in a smirk. Her looks had not faded, at least. Long honey-gold hair fell to her shoulders in shining waves. Her eyes, jade green, bright and clear. As for the rest, well, she still had the body of an Olympian.</p><p>
  <em>Even if Olympus was long gone.</em>
</p><p>The old gods were gone. Forgotten. The few that remained lived off man’s needs and frailties, not worship. War, of course. Ares would never change, nor would mankind, it seemed. Death, as well. For all souls come to Hades, in the end. And love. The greatest need of all. Mankind’s hopes and dreams still fueling her power. One Dita Swan, professional model. Once known as <em>Aphrodite</em>.</p><p>The blonde chuckled.</p><p>
  <em>Athena would never have believed this. Me, having a job, in the mortal world.</em>
</p><p>Not that Dita needed money, of all things. No, she needed something only the camera could provide. By capturing her image in the pages of countless magazines.</p><p>
  <em>Desire.</em>
</p><p>It was that which fed her, gave her power. The need humans still had, for love and beauty. She’d done it for years now, since the jazz age, changing her look so many times. In Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, McCall.</p><p>
  <em>Runway.</em>
</p><p>The reason she was here tonight. A fashion week party, for the executives of Elias-Clarke, and their guests. A chuckle left Dita’s lips.</p><p>
  <em>This is what I’ve fallen to. Selling couture to the elite. Clothes most women could never hope to afford. </em>
</p><p>The one bright spot was the magazine’s editor, Miranda Priestly. A self-made queen, ruling the fashion world. Brilliant, beautiful, mercurial.</p><p>With horrible taste in romantic partners.</p><p>
  <em>Of course, she’s been lying to herself for years, with all those idiot men. </em>
</p><p>Dita’s scanned the room, looking for the enigmatic editor. Soon she’d have to head upstairs, to the party itself. In the Trianon suite. Dinner and dancing at 8:00. Not that there’d be anyone interesting there, except Miranda. She remembered the last party. When that horrible woman with skunk hair kept <em>flirting</em> with her. She grimaced, signaling the bartender for another drink.</p><p>
  <em>If Irv Ravitz grabs my ass again, he’ll get a new understanding of “shrinkage”.</em>
</p><p>An icy voice caught Dita’s attention, its tone curt. “Emily,” the voice said. “We’ll be staying for one hour, make sure Roy brings the car around at 9:00.” Dita turned, her eyes falling upon Runway’s editor-in-chief. The Devil in heels herself, Miranda Priestly. Her silver hair in a sleek bob, coral lips pursed in annoyance. Clad in a black Alexander McQueen tuxedo dress, lace at its front. A pair of matching Manolo Blahnik pumps on her feet.</p><p>Two women followed her. A slim redhead, in a blue Carolina Herrera sheath. The second, with long auburn hair, clad in a black Michael Kors floral print. The brunette spoke. “Miranda, we’ve booked you in a terrace suite, upstairs,” she said. “No need for Roy to stay.” The editor glanced at the woman, her eyes softening. “Acceptable,” she said.</p><p>Dita’s gaze roamed the brunette’s form. Appreciating the young woman’s beauty. The way she attended to Miranda, dark eyes shining with…</p><p>
  <em>Love.</em>
</p><p>The Olympian’s smile widened. Her eyes sparkling with sudden glee. “Does Miranda notice?” she whispered. “Does she see?” The editor approached the bar, noticing Dita. “Good evening, Ms. Swan,” Miranda said. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.” Dita shook her head. “Not at all, Miranda,” she said. She rose, bowing her head. “I’m very happy to see you tonight. And your beautiful companions. Could you introduce us?”</p><p>Miranda smirked, arching an eyebrow at the model. “My assistants,” she said. “Emily Charlton, and Andréa Sachs.” Dita smiled at the younger women. “It’s lovely to meet you,” she said. She darted a look at Miranda, a mischievous idea forming in her mind. She edged closer to the brunette; her voice flirtatious. “It’d be nice to dance with someone who wasn’t trying to cop a feel,” she said.</p><p>The brunette laughed, her eyes bright, “Are you sure I won’t?” she said. “This is the first time I’ve been out in weeks!” The blonde grinned. “Ooh. I like you,” she replied. “Beautiful, <em>and</em> a sense of humor.”</p><p>Miranda’s face stiffened, her eyes narrowing at Dita. The goddess stifled a laugh, hiding her smirk with one hand.</p><p><em>Gotcha.</em> </p><p>
  <em>This might be more fun than I thought.</em>
</p><p>Dita leaned closer to the brunette. Her voice low, a husky purr. “I wouldn’t mind if <em> you </em>were handsy,” she said. The brunette’s eyes widened, a pretty flush adorning her face. “Y… you can call me Andy,” she stammered. “Everyone else does, except Miranda.” Dita darted a glance at the older woman. The editor glared at the goddess, her jaw clenched. The blonde looked away, a puckish light in her eyes.</p><p>
  <em>Somebody’s jealous.</em>
</p><p>“Well, shall we go?” she asked, gracing the other women with a brilliant smile. Miranda nodded. “Lead on,” she said, allowing Dita to guide them forward.</p><hr/><p>A jazz quintet played in the corner of the Trianon suite. Waiters circulating with snacks and drinks. Dita sat at the head table, beside Andy, chatting with the brunette. To her left sat Miranda, nursing a glass of merlot. Darting furtive glances across the table, cobalt eyes resting on the young brunette. The goddess chuckled.</p><p>
  <em>She can’t keep her eyes off Andy.</em>
</p><p>Dita set her wine glass down. She rose, offering a wide smile to the brunette. “Care for a dance?” she asked. The assistant’s cheeks pinked. Her voice lowered, a shy murmur. “I’d… I’d like that,” she said. The blonde smirked at the editor. “Miranda, mind if I borrow Andy?” Miranda’s eyes flicked to Dita, full of sudden frost. “I don’t own Andréa.” She said. “She can do as she likes.”</p><p>Dita took Andy’s hand, their fingers tangling together.  She pulled the younger woman to the dance floor, a reassuring grin on her face. The band started up. The strains of “Let’s Fall in Love” coming from a muted piano, a soft guitar line playing counterpoint. Dita placed one hand on the brunette’s hip. The other moving up, to rest on her back. Andy smiled, her hands falling to Dita’s waist. The blonde led. Each movement graceful. Her eyes warm upon the brunette. “Thank you,” Andy said. “This is nice. I usually don’t get a chance to do this at these things. Work, you know.”</p><p>The goddess chuckled. “I’m glad,” she said. “My partners at these events are rarely so charming.” The brunette scrutinized the blonde. “Why are you spending time with me?” she murmured. “I’m nobody special. The only reason I’m here is because of Miranda.” Dita shook her head. “You’re wrong,” she said. “You are special. That’s why I had to ask you for this dance.”</p><p>Andy snorted. “I wish I could believe that,” she said. “If I did, maybe I could talk to <em>her</em>.” Dita smirked. “<em>Her</em>?” she asked. “Now that sounds <em>interesting</em>. Is it someone at work? That cute little redhead you came with?”</p><p>Andy shook her head, giggling at the question. “Not Emily!” she said. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. She’s beautiful, and I love her dearly. But god, just… <em>no</em>.” Dita pursed her lips, brow furrowed in thought. Her eyes widened. “Oh!” she said. “That lovely Brazilian woman, Serena, is it?”</p><p>Andy shook her head. “No, not her, either,” she said. her voice lowering. “It’s… someone else. Someone who could never see me that way. No matter how I want them to.” Andy sighed, thoughts straying to the woman she loved. Dita gazed at the brunette. A gentle smile upon her lips. Green eyes soft with understanding. “Somebody above you, then,” she said. “Someone in this room. So beautiful, so admirable, yet so very, very <em>alone</em>…”</p><p>Andy recoiled, taken aback by the blonde’s words. Breathless. “How can you tell?” she asked. Dita chuckled. “Let’s say I have a <em>feel</em> for this sort of thing,” she said. “It’s kind of what I <em>do</em>.” Andy rolled her eyes. “What, you’re a matchmaker between modeling gigs?” she asked. Dita winked. “I could be your personal <em>love</em> <em>goddess</em>, for all you know,” she said.</p><p>A peal of laughter fell from Andy’s lips “Love goddess, eh?” she snarked. “Gotta pretty high opinion of yourself, huh?” Dita leaned in, her eyes falling to Andy’s lips.  A salacious grin crossed her face, sending a flush of heat through the brunette. “You have no idea, <em>darling</em>,” she murmured. Her voice low, sultry, suggesting hidden delights. “But I’m certainly willing to <em>show</em> you.” Andy gaped at the other woman, a furious blush painting her cheeks.</p><p>Dita pulled Andy close, as a new song began. Her scent enveloping the other woman. Sweet, beguiling. A whisper of springtime peonies in her hair. Green eyes flashed, flirtatious. Generous lips curving as they paused, so close to Andy’s own. “Well, <em>whoever</em> she is, she’s a fool not to be here, with you,” Dita said. “But her loss is my gain.” The brunette smiled, leaning closer to her beautiful partner. “At least for this dance,” she teased.</p><p>Across the room, cobalt eyes narrowed in frustration. A flush of sudden anger lighting Miranda’s cheeks. Her hands clenched before her, shredding her cocktail napkin to pieces. She watched Dita, holding Andréa. Guiding her across the dance floor. Their bodies pressed together, cheek to cheek. Blonde and brunette beautiful together. Opposites, in perfect harmony. Morning’s light and evening twilight’s shadow. Andréa’s eyes shining, as they moved, a brilliant smile upon her face.</p><p>
  <em>How can I compete with that?</em>
</p><p>What a fool she was. Andréa was young, winsome. Her energy and passion so alluring. Her light a beacon, for any with eyes to see.</p><p>
  <em>She’ll never want me.</em>
</p><p>Yet how she had hoped. How she’d lived on it. The tiny flame within her heart, whenever the brunette was near. The longed-for connection, the frisson of desire she evoked. Wishing to tell her. Give voice to the feelings, that lay within her secret heart. For the woman, before her, on the dance floor.</p><p>
  <em>I want it to be me. I want it to be me she looks at.</em>
</p><p>She was in love. In love with Andréa Sachs.</p><p>She didn’t know when it had started. This feeling inside. The tender regard she felt for her young assistant. The change had crept up upon her, so slowly, little by little. And all at once, she’d noticed her.</p><p>
  <em>Andréa.</em>
</p><p>How she’d memorized the girl, since then. The features of her face and form. Her full lips curved in greeting, each morning. Dark eyes soft, and full of care. Their fingertips brushing, featherlight, as she delivered the morning coffee. Her scent, honeysuckle sweet, as she leaned close, so tantalizing. And her kindness. Artless, never seeking recompense. Only wishing to help. To ease Miranda’s burdens, and make them light. Assuring she’d have time with her children.</p><p>
  <em>No wonder I fell for her.</em>
</p><p>Miranda hefted her glass, swirling the amber Lagavulin scotch inside. Taking a drink. Feeling the liquid burn its way down her throat. A feeling of loss, of wretchedness overcoming her. Eyes stinging, like the beginning of tears. She gazed at the brunette, floating across the dance floor. Held within the circle of Dita’s arms.</p><p>
  <em>If only she were mine.</em>
</p><p>Miranda shook her head. Why would Andréa ever want her, choose her? Accept her heart, her foolish heart. The torn and tattered thing within her breast, that heedless, raced for <em>her</em>.</p><p>The couple spun closer. Dita’s eyes upon Miranda. “Not dancing tonight?” she asked, her voice arch. The editor glowered at the model, biting back an angry retort. She rose from her seat, stepping to the dance floor. She caught Dita’s elbow, her voice a silky purr. “May I cut in?” she asked. The blonde cocked her head, a playful smirk growing on her face. “Oh?” she asked. “And who do you <em>want</em>?”</p><p>A rush of heat rose to Miranda’s face. “I… I want Andréa,” she stammered, her composure slipping. A tinkling laugh left the blonde’s lips. She released Andy, her lips brushing against the brunette’s cheek. “Thank you, Andy,” she said. “That was lovely. Don’t let me keep you from <em>Miranda</em>.” She winked at the younger woman, jade eyes bright with mischief.</p><p>Andy stared at the floor, mortified. Unable to meet Miranda’s eyes. Joy and panic contending in her mind.</p><p>
  <em>She wants to dance. She wants to dance with me!</em>
</p><p>A low voice caressed Andy, soft, for her ears alone. “Will you?” it asked. “Will you dance with me, Andréa? The brunette lifted her eyes, meeting Miranda’s. The editor held out her hand to the younger woman. An invitation.</p><p>Andy stared at Miranda, astonished. Taking in her appearance. The rosy blush of color on her cheeks. Silver hair tousled by worrying fingers. Eyes lit with some inner passion. Andy paused, struck dumb. Lungs bereft of air. Staggered by her love’s beauty. Miranda waited on the brunette’s reply. Dismay growing on her face, as the brunette remained silent. The hand lowered. She turned, leaving the dance floor, and exiting the room.</p><p>Dita appeared by Andy’s side. “Aren’t you going to follow her?” she asked. “She’s the one, isn’t she?” Andy shook her head. “You don’t understand,” she said. “It’s not that simple.” Dita smiled, her voice warm with sympathy. “It <em>is</em> simple,” she replied. “Do you love her?”</p><p>Tears gathered in Andy’s eyes, ready to fall. Her voice an aching whisper. “With all my heart,” she said. Dita pushed the brunette toward the door. “Then <em>go</em> to her,” she said. Andy nodded, giving the blonde a small smile. Then followed Miranda out the door. </p><p>Dita sighed, watching the brunette go. An amused voice sounded behind her. “You think they’ll get a clue?” it said. The blonde turned, her eyes falling on Emily Charlton, a vision in cobalt silk. “Who knows?” she answered. “They might need a little help.” The redhead snorted. “Too bloody right,” she said. She shook her head. “Well, I’m off. The bar here's got a drink with my name on it. Cheers then, Dita.” The goddess chuckled, watching the redhead leave, admiring her firm backside.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Push Comes To Love</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Andy chases after Miranda. They finally reveal their feelings, and have that dance.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Andy ran to the elevators, her heart pounding. A car opened, allowing her entrance. She pushed the up button. Heading for Miranda’s suite. The elevator opened. She walked down the hall to Miranda’s suite, taking the keycard from her pocket. She opened the door, closing it behind her. The room was silent. She entered the bedroom, eyes alert. Miranda’s bag and makeup case lay undisturbed upon the bed, where Andy had left them earlier. The faint scent of Chanel N°5 coming from the bedclothes. No sign of the editor within the room. Andy opened the closet across from the bed. Miranda’s tuxedo dress lay inside, hung with care. One hanger lay discarded on the floor, as if someone had hurriedly changed.</p><p>A crackle of static came from outside, the sound of music beginning.  Jane Monheit singing “Do I Love You” from some hidden speaker. Andy approached the terrace door. A woman visible through the glass. Footlights a pale glow about her feet. Leaning her elbows upon a wrought-iron railing. Clad in a white silk kimono, cherry blossoms embellishing its front and back. Staring out into the dark, the glimmer of tears upon her cheek.</p><p>
  <em>Miranda.</em>
</p><p>A sob rose in Andy’s throat. Something in her chest swelling, about to burst. She opened the door, stepping out onto the terrace. Heels clicking on the gray slate beneath her feet. She stopped, unsure of what to say. Eyes full of Miranda, her garments set ablaze by silver moonlight.</p><p>Miranda tensed, turning. Her eyes defensive, wary. “What are you doing here?” she asked. Andy shook her head. “I… I had to come,” she said. “You didn’t give me a chance to <em>say</em> anything.”</p><p>Miranda shook her head. “You needn’t bother,” she said. “What you <em>didn’t</em> say was clear enough.” The editor straightened, her features stiff, heading for the door. “The suite’s yours,” she spat. “Do what you like with it. I’m heading home.”</p><p>Andy’s hand shot out, seizing Miranda’s wrist. Words tumbling from her lips. Rushed, an awkward plea. “Don’t go,” she said. “I… I wanted the dance. I did. I just froze.” Tears welled in the brunette’s eyes. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to ruin everything.”</p><p>Miranda heart dropped. Torn by the younger woman’s tears. She pulled Andréa into her arms, hushing the trembling girl. “Shh, it’s alright,” she said. “You didn’t ruin anything. Please Andréa, don’t cry.” The brunette burrowed into Miranda’s shoulder. “It’s just, you asked me, and I was so <em>happy</em>, then I didn’t know what to say,” she babbled. “I’m sorry.” The editor chuckled, fingers combing dark hair. “There’s nothing to be sorry about, darling,” she said. “It’s just a misunderstanding.”</p><p>The brunette sniffled. She lifted her face to Miranda. “Then you’re not mad?” she asked. “We can start again?” Miranda brushed the tears from Andy’s face. “I’m not mad, Andréa,” she said. “Everything’s all right.” Andy wrapped Miranda in a tight hug. “Thank you,” she whispered.</p><p>Miranda led Andy to a plush settee, sitting her down. The brunette tucked into Miranda, resting her head on the older woman’s shoulder. They sat there, taking a moment’s solace together. Miranda’s fingers still playing in the younger woman’s hair. “I’m sorry I got angry,” she said. “I overreacted. I saw you there, with Dita, and I…”</p><p>Chocolate eyes looked up, curious. “What, Miranda?” Andy asked. The editor bit her lower lip, a high spot of pink upon her cheeks. “I got jealous,” she said. “Of the way she was holding you. Touching you. I… I wished it was <em>me</em>.”</p><p>A saucy grin crossed Andy’s face. “I didn’t know you liked Dita that way,” she jibed. Miranda rolled her eyes. “Shush, Andréa,” she said. “You know what I mean.” A rueful chuckle left her lips. Her words soft, full of quiet affection. “I wanted to be the one dancing with you, holding you close. Making you smile. Just me.”</p><p>Andy rose, taking Miranda’s hand, her face bright. “Let me fix that,” she said. Leading her to the terrace’s center. She sketched a playful curtsy to the older woman. “Dance with me, Miranda,” she said. “Dance with me, <em>please</em>.”  A small smile grew on Miranda’s lips. “I thought you’d never ask,” she said. They stepped towards each other. Andy’s hands settling on the older woman’s hips. She leaned forward, as the editor’s arms enfolded her. Resting her cheek against her beloved’s, as they started to dance.</p><p>Miranda sighed, overcome by the gentle touch. The warm scent of Andréa’s perfume, rising from the hollow of her throat. Jasmine and orange blossom teasing the editor’s senses. She melted into the embrace, guiding Andréa across the terrace. A feeling, like electricity, skittering across her skin. Heart racing madly in her breast, pounding against Andréa’s own. Blissfully lost, within her arms.  Wanting only this. This thing they shared. This moment. This feeling.</p><p>
  <em>This love.</em>
</p><p>The music slowed, coming its end, and with it, the dance. Miranda halted. Arms still wrapped around the brunette. Their bodies slotted close together. “I’ve wanted this,” she said. “To show you, to tell you, for so very long.” She shook her head. “But I couldn’t say anything.”</p><p>Andy lifted a hand to Miranda’s face, cupping her cheek. A tender expression on her face. “Why?” she asked. Miranda shook her head. “I was afraid,” she said. “Afraid you wouldn’t want me. Afraid you wouldn’t care. Afraid that you would leave. And I couldn’t face that.”</p><p>Andy nodded. Dark eyes earnest, shining. “I understand,” she said. “I felt the same. The very same. Wishing I was brave enough to do <em>this</em>, when it’s all I really wanted.” Andy inched forward. Her lips, warm, soft, lightly parted, meeting Miranda’s in a gentle kiss.  “I love you,” she said. “I love you, Miranda.”</p><p>Miranda responded. Fingers twining in dark hair. Lips reverent, worshiping the brunette’s mouth. They parted, breathless, eyes wide in wonderment. “I love you, Andréa,” Miranda said. “So very much, my darling.”</p><p>They stood there, on the terrace. Falling together, upon another kiss. Of all else, heedless, in the sheltering dark. Their only stars the light within each other’s eyes.</p><p>A lone figure sat upon the wall above the terrace, unseen. One hand leaning upon its tan brick. The blonde watched the new lovers below, a pleased grin on her face. “Not a bad night’s work,” Dita chuckled. “All they needed was a little push.” Her fingers strayed to the necklace about her neck. A delicate pendant watch, heart shaped, upon a chain. She looked at the time. “I wonder if Emily’s still at the bar?” she smirked, thinking of the redhead’s sinuous curves.</p><p>“After all, a girl’s gotta have <em>some</em> fun.”</p><p> </p>
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